


moments stolen

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Memory Loss, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22263505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: Steve forgets the last year, the reader, and how he felt about them. By the time he figures it all out, it might be too late.aka amnesiac!steve, friends to lovers, and plenty of angst
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 103





	1. what if we never knew october

**NOW**

Steve has only woken in a hospital bed once, after a bad fall off the railing of the stairs he was climbing when he was eight, and it’s no less jarring the second time as it was the first. The cream walls and freckled linoleum scream _hospital_ , if the undertones of antiseptic and IV sticking out of his arm hadn’t already clued him in on his location.

How he got there, however, is unclear. He has a throbbing headache, and his shoulder aches like a son of a bitch, and his head is a little fuzzy, and the light streaming in through the windows is _goddamn bright_ , but otherwise, he feels fine. Not the worst he’s felt upon waking, though certainly the most disoriented.

Across the small room, his mother sleeps in an uncomfortable-looking chair, her lips turned down in a frown. He’s never known his mother to be anything other than put together, never a hair out of place, but she looks… _disheveled_. Exhausted, even as she rests.

His father is nowhere to be seen; this, at least, is unsurprising. Richard ‘ _Dick_ ’ Harrington’s attention is only granted if someone pisses him off or is dying. It seems neither applies here, which is some relief, but still not an explanation.

His mother stirs at his movement, shifting to a sitting position with obvious discomfort, gaze landing on him in the bed. Within a second, she’s at his bedside, one of his hands clasped in hers. Tears well in her eyes, and he resists the urge to snap _don’t_. She doesn’t get to pick and choose when to care; he gets hurt, and she decides to turn on mom-mode?

He lets her fuss over him for a moment before taking her wrists, drawing her focus to his face.

“What happened?”

Her breath hitches, and he momentarily wishes a doctor would come in and give it to him straight. Another concussion, probably. Lord knows he’s had enough to know what to do. All this squabbling is unnecessary.

“You don’t remember?” At his silence, she takes in a shaky breath and averts her gaze, continuing. “You and-you were in a car accident. You’ve been asleep for two days. The doctors didn’t know if-” she hiccups, another sob threatening to burst out.

“What are you talking about? I wasn’t-”

The door swings open, and a doctor Steve doesn’t recognize steps in. He’s followed by an assortment of nurses and other medical types who Steve immediately forgets the names of, who take the reins from his mother and explain he’s been in an accident, and spent a few days in a coma, but he’s expected to make a full recovery. _No big deal_.

That is, until they ask him the last thing he remembers, and he gives the wrong answer. They don’t tell him it’s wrong, but he can see it in the way they stiffen and exchange looks and purse their lips.

“Does he have a history of head trauma?” The doctor asks his mother, who straightens and sniffles.

“Two months ago, he was hurt pretty badly in the Starcourt explosion. And last November, Billy Hargrove gave him a concussion. May he rest in peace, but boy, was he quite something-” his mother stops herself mid-rant, and though there are quite a few things to pick out of her revelation, he only really cares about one.

“Last November?” He asks, an icy chill creeping down his spine. “That was last night.”

**THEN**

Your closest neighbors - the Byers’ - weren’t actually _that_ close - not close enough for day to day noise to carry - so when you heard the commotion across the field, you knew it was something bad. You had your feet jammed into sneakers and a jacket wrapped around your shoulders in seconds, pushing through the front door and down the porch at a run in the direction of the Byers’. Not that you were prepared for an emergency of any kind, really, but you couldn’t _not_ help if something was wrong.

Billy Hargrove’s car was parked in the driveway beside Steve Harrington’s - neither of whom lived there - and neither Jonathan nor Joyce’s car was anywhere to be seen; an immediate red flag. The front door hung open up the porch, and the sounds of a fight spilled out into the night.

Running in was in no way a smart thing to do, but in you went anyways, briefly noting the seemingly meaningless drawings adorning every inch of the walls and floor, heading for the source of the noise.

In the front room, Steve threw a punch that Billy dodged easily, slamming his own fist into Steve’s gut. The pair were too engrossed in their fight to notice you, but Billy’s sister - Max was her name - met your gaze. Her eyes dropped to a syringe on one of the cupboards, and then lifted to meet yours again; you understood in an instant, darting for the needle and lunging across the room. You may not have had any formal medical training, but years of babysitting taught you basic first aid, and since toddlers were notoriously injuring themselves, you had practice. You uncapped the needle with ease and plunged it into Billy’s neck, his torso going rigid at the injection. He stiffened and straightened, turning to face you with pure fire in his eyes.

But before he could use any of the flames, the drugs doused it, his eyes glazing over, knees buckling. He joined Steve in the land of the unconscious and hit the ground with a thud.

**NOW**

It isn’t a doctor - or even Steve’s mother - that comes to find you and Robin in the waiting room, but Nancy Wheeler. You didn’t realize she was still here; the waiting room had been a flurry of people the last two days, only you and Robin refusing to go, but you swore Nancy left hours ago. Though, after two days in a plastic chair in a hospital waiting room, you’re not rested enough to trust your senses - or judgment, really - at the moment.

“Oh, thank god.” Robin pushes up from her curled up position on the chair and straightens at Nancy’s entrance. “We’re about two seconds from creating a diversion and sneaking in there.”

“Can we see him?” You ask.

“Dustin said he was awake,” Robin says. Nancy’s lips pull thin, and she crosses the empty waiting room to drop down into a chair across from you. She meets your gaze, brows lifting.

“How are you feeling?” She nods to the bandages hidden beneath your jacket, hiding bruised ribs. In an effort to protect you in the crash - stupid; you were wearing a seat belt, he didn’t need to do that - Steve had thrown an arm out. Though he kept you from rocking forward, his shoulder dislocated on impact, and his elbow crushed into your chest.

“Fine.” Trying to cross your arms results in an ache that pushes heavy against your lungs, and you settle them by your side instead. “When can we see him?”

“You might not want to,” she says, voice low, avoiding both your eyes.

“Is he okay?” Robin asks, the fear in her voice matching the feeling rising in your chest.

“He’s okay,” she says. “But, he hit his head pretty hard.”

“He hits his head _pretty hard_ at least once a week,” you say, frowning.

“Not _this_ hard.” Nancy shifts uneasily. “He…the doctor’s don’t know…”

“Nancy,” Robin says. Nancy tries again, cheeks pink.

“The last thing he remembers is standing outside Jonathan’s house before Billy beat the crap out of him,” she says.

“That was a _year_ ago,” you say, like the words will allow for some recounting of the ballots, some reshuffling of the answers until you land on one you want. But Nancy’s grimace only deepens, confirming your fears.

“Is he going to get his memories back?” Robin asks, voicing the questions you’re incapable of. You’re still stuck on the year-ago thing; a year ago, he didn’t know Robin. A year ago, he didn’t know you; he sure as fuck hadn’t loved you.

It’s the cruelest of all ironies that his last memory is of mere _minutes_ before you met; it feels as if some sick, twisted being is trying to make a point. Frustration coils in your gut, twisting like a snake and knotting your insides.

“There’s no way to know yet,” Nancy says. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, and you push to your feet, pacing the small room. This late at night, it’s empty, the fifteen or so chairs deserted, half-read magazines and a few coffee cups the only evidence they were once occupied.

You want to get into your car and drive until this hospital, and the nightmares it holds are far away. But your car is as out of reach as Steve is in his hospital room just down the hall. It hadn’t fared as well as the two of you in the accident. The unfortunate thing was completely totaled; undriveable; unfixable. Your first car, a thousand memories tucked into its worn leather seats. Gone, just like that.

“He doesn’t know who we are, does he?” You ask. You look up to the fluorescent ceiling lights, willing yourself not to cry; not here, not yet.

Tears shine in Nancy’s eyes, and she presses her lips firmly together for a long second before answering.

“No,” she says. “He doesn’t.”

**THEN**

Steve blinked awake, his head throbbing, even the dim lighting of - was he in a _car_? - his surroundings burning his eyes. It was like someone stuffed his skull full of cotton balls. One of his eyes stung when he blinked, and he thought it might be swollen shut. Each breath rattled painfully in his chest.

None of these things were as concerning as a thirteen-year-old in the driver’s seat of Billy Hargrove’s car, however. The car that he was in. Which must be stolen.

 _Fuck_. Billy was going to kill him; all of them.

He craned his head to see who was holding the icepack to his temple and found you - face somewhat familiar, but he certainly hadn’t met you before - sitting beside him, Dustin and Mike pressed together on the other side of you.

“ _What the…_ ”

“You’re okay.” You shifted, leaning so he could see part of your face, giving him a reassuring smile. “You just took a little nap.”

His gaze strayed back to the front of the car, where Max - _oh_ , Billy was definitely gonna kill him - accelerated, the vehicle picking up speed quickly. Everyone braced, including you, one of your hands tightening around him, holding him steady.

“Why the _hell_ aren’t you driving?” He asked you, though, that wasn’t really the most pressing of concerns. He had a lot of _fucking_ _concerns_ at the moment.

“Because I’m the only one who won’t be antagonistic,” you said, “and they,” you jerked a chin toward the others in the car, “said you’d freak out when you woke up. Which, you are. I’m trying to keep you calm.”

“Calm? _Calm_?” He tried to push himself up, but you shoved him easily back against the seat.

“Hey. You’re fine. Just…look at me. Don’t look outside.”

“ _I told you_ he would flip out,” Lucas said from the passenger seat.

“We should have just left him,” Max said.

“Not helping,” you retorted, before looking down at Steve. He peered up at your curiously, mouth turning down in a frown.

“I know you,” he said.

“Hmmm.”

“Are you…in my math class?” He asked. Your brows cocked for a moment, an amused smile tugging on your mouth.

“I am,” you said.

“Do you know about…” he stopped, gaze flicking to the front of the car for a moment. “You know.”

“He means Demogorgons,” Dustin said, then directed his words to Steve, “and yes, while you were passed out and were dragging you to the car, we filled them in.”

“Y/N saved your ass, you know,” Max said.

“All I did was sedate one asshole,” you said. Steve grinned.

“Thank you.”

“Just try not to get hit in the head again, yeah?”

Mike snorted, and Dustin said, “Fat chance.”

**NOW**

With your car inaccessible, Robin volunteers to drive you home, both of you giving in after Nancy’s confession. Though you wish you could just walk, it’s far too cold, and you doubt you’d make it more than a few feet before you collapsed into a pathetic, weepy mess.

When she reaches your house, the neighborhood quiet and still, you don’t get out. Robin lets out a long breath, hands sliding up to the top of the wheel, and she leans her forehead against them.

 _Bullshit_ , you think.

The accident itself was a fluke; a flat tire, and a spot of ice. But in a blink, a year of his life is gone. And because the universe is a sick bastard sometimes, the year that he forgot starts just before you met. Literal minutes.

If you’d come next door a few minutes earlier that day a year ago, or if you’d taken a different route on the drive two days ago, things might be different. He might remember you; he might still care about you.

“He told me he loved me,” you say eventually, to yourself, to Robin, to space.

Robin lifts her head, and you can feel her gaze on the side of your face.

“What?”

“Before the accident. And I said it back,” you say with a bitter laugh, “and now, he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember you. He doesn’t remember any of it.”

The hysteria bubbles up in your chest, and giggles burst through your lips.

“He doesn’t remember,” you say, breath hitching, the laugh dissolving into a sob. You clamp your mouth shut, but your shoulders shake, and tears rake little rivers down your cheeks.

When you meet Robin’s gaze, she’s crying too, and she wraps her arms around you, chin tucked against your hair.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

“I’m sorry, too,” you reply, because she’s lost him, too. She lost one of her best friends, just as you did, even if it’s a little different. 

And it’s so incredibly unfair and so ridiculously horrendous that there’s nothing else to say, nothing to soothe either of your burns.

The Steve Harrington you knew is gone, and the memories you made are sole possessions now, kept safe in your mind, their only remaining keepers.

You vow to hold onto them until the day Steve finds them again; that is, _if_ he finds them again.


	2. lonely right down in my heart

**NOW**

Town clears out during the Thanksgiving holiday week, Hawkins citizens packing their cars full of suitcases and splitting off in every direction to spend the holidays with their families. With Keith two states over for the second half of the week, you and Robin take the store’s reins.

You manage to avoid Steve for four days, though it isn’t _technically_ avoiding, considering he has no idea who you are. Still, you make Robin take the long way when she drives you to and from work so you don’t pass his house.

There are already too many memories of Steve Harrington stuffed into your brain; you don’t need another trigger to overload you with memories of a boy who doesn’t know you anymore.

The bell dings above the front door, signaling the entrance of a customer, but you don’t lift your head from the book spread open in front of you on the counter. If they need help, they can ask; for now, research on retrograde amnesia.

According to your research - _research_ meaning _skimming whatever medical books you could find at the library_ \- there are a few types of amnesia, but it’s too soon to know for sure which Steve has. The best-case scenario: temporally graded retrograde amnesia, in which victims eventually regain their lost memories.

Worst case scenario: he never regains shit.

“Hey.” The familiar voice sends a jolt of electricity through you, and you nearly fall off the stool in your haste to slam the book shut and tuck it under the counter. You meet Steve’s gaze, his posture relaxed as he leans against the counter, wearing work vest over a faded tee. One of his arms is still in a sling, the elbow in a cast where it broke. Your bruised ribs whine painfully at the reminder.

There is no recognition in his eyes, none of the fondness or tenderness you used to see when you looked into those dark irises. Just…politeness. Reservation.

He has no clue who you are.

“What are you doing here?” Your words come out harsher than you intend, and Steve’s easy smile falters ever so slightly.

“Uh…working?”

“You’re not scheduled today. Or, at all.”

He straightens, one hand gripping the counter, and gives a dismissive half-shrug. Your heart twinges, and you lean back nonchalantly.

“Keith told me to come in a few days this week. I think he wanted to fire me, but so long as he could slap my training….or _retraining_ , I guess, on someone else.”

_Not a chance._

“That someone would be Robin,” you say. “I’ll grab her.”

You head for the break room without another word, not waiting for Steve to reply, too desperate to get away him. It feels like someone’s piling bricks on your chest, air near impossible to find.

Robin looks up from the worn novel in her hands and sets down her Slurpee cup, concern weaving itself into her features at the sight of you in the doorway.

“What is it?” She asks. Your lips part and you step further into the room, letting the door swing shut behind you.

“Steve’s here,” you say.

“ _What_?”

“Apparently, Keith didn’t want to train him again, so he’s sticking him on us.”

“Why is he even back at work? He got out of the hospital three days ago.” Robin’s mouth twitches into a frown, her brows knitted together.

“I didn’t exactly make conversation.”

“You bolted?”

“Totally, 100%, bolted.”

She crinkles her nose and sets the book aside, pushing to her feet.

“I’ve got it. I’ll just…tell him you’re doing inventory. Kick him out after an hour, and call it good.”

You give her a grateful smile.

“Thank you, Robin. I’m sorry. I know-”

She cuts you off with a hug, her face buried in your neck.

“Don’t,” she says, voice muffled. She pulls away to look at you, lips curled up in a sad smile. “You don’t have to explain.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” you say again, for everything, and Robin nods like she understands.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she says, lingering in the doorway. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

“Even if he doesn’t get his memories back?”

She winces slightly, but the sad smile doesn’t falter.

“Even then.”

**THEN**

“Hey,” Steve mumbled, hanging off the car door as Dustin, Lucas, Mike, and Max geared up. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

He was ignored, Lucas and Mike pushing past him, their faces wrapped in cloth, goggles tugged down over their eyes. Max wordlessly tossed you a bandana, which you tied around your neck.

“What are you deaf? _Helloooo_ ,” Steve protested. “We are _not_ going down there right now, I made myself _clear_.”

Dustin dragged two gas containers in front of the car before returning to the trunk, where Steve had maneuvered to, leaning heavily against the metal exterior of Billy’s stolen vehicle. Max made her way to the other boys, the three of them lugging gas and rope toward the hole in the dirt.

“Hey, there is no _chance_ we’re going in that hole.” He swatted the rope out of Dustin’s hand, losing his balance in the process.

“Steve. _Steve_ ,” Dustin said. “I get it. But the bottom line is, a party member requires assistance, and it is our duty to provide that assistance. Now, I know you promised Nance to keep us safe. So keep us safe.” He tugged a wooden bat studded with crude-looking nails out of the trunk, holding it out to Steve, who inhaled sharply through his nose, but took the bat.

He turned to you as Dustin headed for the hole, and frowned at the sight of the bandana around your neck and the hammer that Max had slapped into your hand at some point.

“You don’t have to go down there. It’s not too late to go home.”

“I think it is,” you said. “I’m in this now.”

He shook his head, raking a hand through his messy hair, wincing as he accidentally caught a tiny cut along his hairline. He was still reeling from so many blows to the head, and though he hated to admit it, more help wasn’t a _bad_ thing.

“I made Nancy a promise, but you didn’t.”

You lifted your chin, eyes narrowing.

“Fine. I’ll make you a promise. I _promise_ to help you keep them safe.”

“It’s not safe down there. This isn’t just homicidal Billy Hargrove.”

“Then, more manpower can’t hurt, can it?”

“You could get hurt.”

“You already did,” you said pointedly. Steve let out a sigh.

“I’m not getting rid of you, am I?”

Your lips quirked up in a grin that was certainly not appropriate for moments before hopping into a mysterious, monster-filled hole in the ground.

“Nope,” you said, popping the P. Steve exhaled and tightened his grip on the bat.

“ _God_ , I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he muttered.

“Famous last words,” you said, swinging the handle of your hammer around your fingers before gripping it tightly and heading for the kids and the hole.

Steve couldn’t help but smile, and follow you into the dark.

**NOW**

Steve squints at the binder on the counter, trying to force his brain into understanding the processes Robin lays out. Who to call about deliveries, what time shipments went in and out, what to do with advanced copies, etc., etc.

“I’m _so_ gonna get fired,” Steve grumbles. He wishes both his hands were free so he could plop his face into them.

“Nah, you won’t,” Robin says, lips twitching into a grin. “You were pretty shitty at this job before you lost your memory. That’s why Keith and I handle the orders, and you and Y/N handle the stock room.” Her gaze flicks toward him at the mention of your name, like she’s looking for something in his face. He hasn’t the slightest idea what.

“Then _why_ exactly are we doing this?”

Robin shrugs.

“It was worth a shot,” she says. “I’ll show you around the back room next time you come in, and you can just stick with that.”

Steve studies her face, searching for something he knows in her features. He doesn’t remember her, though he knows they’ve worked together at the video store for a month, and worked at the mall - which was constructed and destroyed within the year he lost - for three the previous summer.

He likes her, though. She’s easy to talk to and quick to laughter, and she doesn’t treat him like he’s sick or like he’s lost something. And he knows he’s lost memories of them, of their friendship, but she doesn’t hold it against him.

It’s a welcome reprieve from the constant flurry of his parents and doctors and neurologists, all of whom see him as a victim or a patient or anything but what he actually is.

“Does it weird you out?” He tilts his head, gesturing between them with his free hand and then at his head. 

Robin pauses, but shakes her head, nose crinkling.

“No,” she says. “I mean, just because you don’t remember me doesn’t mean I don’t still know who you are.”

“And if I never remember?”

She shrugs, like it’s no big deal, and he feels like one of the many pieces he’s been missing since he woke up in the hospital slides back into place; it’s like he missed her, and didn’t even realize it until now.

“If you never remember, it’ll be okay.” She smiles at him, and he wants to believe her; he almost does.

He gets the closest to hope he’s gotten in days; the closest he’s gotten since he can remember.

“We should lock up. I can let Y/N know, and I can show you how to lock the door,” Robin says.

“I’ll tell them,” Steve says. Robin’s features twist immediately, and she shakes her head.

“Don’t worry about it, I got it.”

He frowns, gaze darting toward the back hallway leading to the break and stock room. He hasn’t seen a trace of you since he came in before; part of him wonders if it was purposeful.

“Does Y/N…not like me, or something? Because, I’m getting real _not a fan_ vibes.”

Robin’s lips part, and for a moment, it looks like she’s going to say something, but she decides against it, clamping her mouth shut and plastering a false smile on her lips.

“What? No. Y/N is just…” she trails off, brows furrowing. “Complicated.”

“Meaning, _they don’t like me._ ”

Robin huffs in protest and folds her arms against her chest.

“God, you’re infuriating.”

“Hey, you had a free pass when I lost my memory. Not my fault you didn’t take it,” he reminds her, to which she sticks her tongue out at him like a child. Just as quickly, though, her features harden.

“Just…give Y/N some space, okay? They’re going through some stuff right now.”

Steve’s lips pull thin.

“I get it,” he says, and Robin gives him a grateful smile.

“Now, paws off the binder. You might fuck up one of the orders just by _looking_ at it,” she says. Steve can’t help but grin.

As far as best friends go, he thinks Robin Buckley is as good as it gets.

**THEN**

You and Steve watched Dustin dart across the asphalt and up the stairs leading to the gym, it’s glass doors showing the dance inside. Steve’s gaze lingered on a blurry image of Nancy pouring punch, and you nudged his arm, drawing his attention away.

“Hey,” you said. “No moping.”

“I’m not moping,” he protested. You cocked a brow.

“You were moping a little bit.”

He made a face, hands settling on the steering wheel, tilting his head in your direction.

“You miss school dances? Shitty corsages, cheap decorations, and chalky punch. The dream,” he said, quickly changing the subject.

“Unfortunately, I never had the pleasure.”

He straightened, shifting to face you, brows arched.

“What?”

“I never went to a school dance. It wasn’t really my scene.”

“Not one? Like, ever?”

“Nope, not one.”

“You totally missed out.”

“You realize you described them as shitty and cheap, right?”

He grinned and said, “ _Oh_ , they are. They’re so bad that they’re kind of good.”

“Awkward slow dancing surrounded by all of your classmates? Hard pass.”

“That’s the best part!”

“I’m glad I missed it,” you said, turning up your nose. Steve’s eyes narrowed, and something unidentifiable but mischievous played on his features. He rolled the windows down and flipped the radio on, cranking up the volume on a Whitney Houston song. Your stomach churned, and you were already halfway into a protest by the time Steve climbed out of the car and came around to your side, popping open the door and holding out a hand.

“No,” you said, “no way.”

Steve wiggled his fingers and arched a brow, a smile tugging on his lips.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s a rite of passage.”

“It is not!”

“Maybe not,” he said, “but we’re doing it anyway.”

“Steve-”

He reached for your hand, and you reluctantly let him pull you up and out of the car. He positioned one of your hands on his shoulder and held onto the other, his free hand settling against your waist. He drew you closer, eyes bright, smile wide.

The music crackled over the car’s speakers, and the asphalt dance floor shone yellow beneath the school’s exterior lights. Steve led, and swayed back and forth, feeding you simple steps and pulling you around the small lot.

It was dancing at its worst, all stepping on toes and tripping on cracks in the asphalt and giggling as you regain your balance, but it was _fun_ , so _incredibly_ fun. It wasn’t awkward and uncertain, and Steve’s hands were steady, his confidence bleeding into you.

School dances may not have been your scene, but this - dancing around the parking lot beneath a ceiling of stars, music a little staticky, laughter making your stomach ache - surely was. You sent up a silent wish for more days like that, more moments like that, but most of all, more time at Steve Harrington’s side.


	3. i do remember the swing of your step

**NOW**

The neurologist has a somber tone when she asks Steve if any of his memories have come back, and a frown twists on her lips when he says no. The disappointment is evident in the doctor’s eyes, and Steve is thankful he talked his mom out of coming to the appointment; her tendency for hysteria would only make things worse.

The truth is, Steve isn’t upset at the prospect of not remembering. There is no loss to be felt for the things he’s missing, not really. If he didn’t _know_ , he might never have noticed things were gone. He only feels it when his missing time creates confusion in conversation or when he catches his mother looking at him like she doesn’t recognize him. He sees it in the people he knows; Dustin’s growth, Nancy’s yearlong relationship with Jonathan - he isn’t sure how he feels about that, if he’s jealous or happy for them or both - and the Byers’ missing presence in town, having moved to Maine a month before. 

He has Robin, at least, and the job at the video store. It keeps him entertained and out of the house.

After the appointment, he walks down the hospital hallways and stares blankly at the floor as the elevator brings him back to the ground.

It’s been three weeks, and though the doctor can’t make a concrete diagnosis until the three-month mark, the complete lack of any recovered memories - even blurry images or a fleeting feeling of deja vu - isn’t a great sign.

Steve is so lost in what that means that he doesn’t see you standing on the edge of the curb, hands stuffed into the pocket of a hoodie, and almost runs right into you. He catches himself at the last moment, slamming to a stop, the motion making you turn around.

Indecipherable emotions flicker across your face before settling into anger; it seems to be your default, at least where he’s concerned. He isn’t sure what he did to make you hate him this much, but knowing himself, he probably deserves it.

“ _Jesus_ , Steve.” You put a foot of space between you, a hand on your chest. “Watch out.”

“Sorry,” he says. One of your brows twitch, and Steve rakes a hand through his hair, uncomfortable. “Are you here to see someone?”

Your head tilts, brows furrowing for a moment before understanding dawns in your eyes, and you shake your head, lips pulling thin.

“No.” You shrug a shoulder. “I had an appointment.”

“Is everything okay?” You arch a brow, and his cheeks flush; you make him nervous, though he doesn’t understand why. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me-it’s none of my business.”

You lick your lips, nose crinkling ever so slightly, like you’re fighting a small battle in your head, whether or not to indulge his curiosity or flip him off and walk away.

“I’m fine,” you say. “I broke a rib a few weeks back.”

“ _Jesus_. How the hell did that happen?”

Your flinch is so quick and small he almost misses it.

“Uh…car accident.”

His face pales. “Oh, god. It wasn’t-I didn’t hit you, right?”

Your lips part, and then, though it is certainly not appropriate for hospital steps, you laugh. The sound is so surprising - so lovely sounding - that Steve forgets where he is for a moment. Something in his mind dances just out of reach for a tenth of a second, and then it’s gone, and he forgets it was ever there.

“What? No. You didn’t _hit_ me.”

“It’s not like I would remember,” he says, and you stiffen. A hand moves absently to your ribs, and you close your eyes, wincing.

“Laughing still hurts,” you say.

Steve surveys the near-empty parking lot, and brings his gaze back to you; no car keys in hand.

“Do you need a ride? I’m headed to work, anyway.”

You move to fold your arms and wince, letting your hands fall back to your sides, fingers working at your long sleeves.

“No, Robin’s picking me up after school.”

Steve cocks a brow.

“In two hours?”

Your lips part, excuse dying on your tongue. You exhale and jam your hands into the pocket of your hoodie, seemingly just for something to do with them.

“It’s a fifteen-minute drive. I promise to do my best not to piss you off,” he says, one side of his mouth twitching up.

Guilt flickers briefly in your eyes, and Steve once again gets the sense there’s more to the history between you than he’s been told. He’s been working at the video store for months, and you navigated it in a way that suggested you’d done the same; have you disliked him this fiercely the whole time?

“Okay.” You don’t look all that enthused, but getting you to agree at all feels like a victory.

**THEN**

The aching in your skull and thick, dry saliva in your mouth marked the beginning of what you knew would be a violent hangover. The drapes kept the morning light out, but even the dimness of the room didn’t alleviate the growing headache.

You rolled off your long-asleep shoulder, the sudden rush of blood back into the appendage bringing with it unpleasant tingling. You kicked off your blankets and pushed yourself higher on the pillows.

At your movement, the bundle of blankets at the other end of the bed shuffled and moaned. A beat later, Steve batted the covers off his head, hair sticking up every which way, lids heavy with sleep.

“For the love of _god_ ,” he mumbled, “please, stop _moving_. I am sleeping.”

You sat up against the headboard and massaged your temples. Steve, reluctantly succumbing to the world of the waking, sat up, pushed onto his knees, and immediately flopped down on his stomach. He tugged a pillow from your side and shoved it beneath his chest, arms wrapped around it.

“What year is it?”

“ _Still_ the same one.”

Steve raked a hand through his hair, mussing it up even more.

“I think…you did a keg stand last night,” he said. You frowned, scoffing.

“I can’t do a _keg stand_. You’re lying. And you were drunk.”

He shrugged a shoulder, looking up at you through feathered lashes.

“Not even jungle juice could make me forget that.”

You kicked him lightly in the side, and he groaned, rolling away.

“Do that again, and I’ll puke,” he said. “What’s the last thing you remember? I’m fuzzy.”

You crinkled your nose, tugging your blankets up further.

“We graduated. I remember…throwing caps in the air? You almost tripping on your way across the stage?”

He gave you a withering look and frowned.

“So…yesterday? At, like, 4 PM?”

“You’re the one who wanted to graduate with a _bang_. Sneaking beers under our gowns and sitting in the sun for two hours definitely didn’t start the night off well.”

He grinned lazily, and your stomach rolled, though not with nausea. It was something different, something pleasant and a little scary and not yet identifiable.

“I remember it was fun before I blacked out,” he said. 

“Oh, don’t worry, someone’s got photos somewhere.”

“Best not to know, maybe,” he said, and you laughed.

“As long as we didn’t see our parents, I’m fine with it.”

At the mention of the dreaded guardians, Steve groaned and ducked his face against the pillow. When he lifted it, he was frowning.

“I still haven’t told them I didn’t get in anywhere. My dad’s gonna-”

“Hey,” you interrupted. “None of that. You have a plan. We’re working at that shitty ice cream place in the mall, and you’ll save up for a year, and apply again. It’s not the end of the world if you’re not in college by the fall.”

“Tell that to him,” he said.

You nudged him again with a foot, drawing his gaze back to your face.

“If he kicks you out, you can always sleep on my floor,” you said, because there wasn’t anything you could say that would change the way his father was. It would work itself out, but it would be messy; you’d known Steve long enough to know that.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. You stretched out an arm, touching his arm lightly, wishing you could do more, wishing you could fix things for him, but settling for just _being there._ And though he still looked a little bit sad, a little bit miserable, you swore some of the light came back to his eyes.

**NOW**

Though Steve doesn’t force you to talk or ask any more questions you don’t have answers for, you can feel his darting glances in your periphery. It isn’t a long drive to the video store, but it feels like climbing Everest; pretending not to look, pretending not to know, pretending not to care.

It was Steve’s mother’s idea not to tell him you were in the car; meant to make his adjustment easier; it was a get out of jail free card for the mother who’d turned up her nose at you since the first time you met her.

The doctor agreed. Losing one’s memory is bad enough, and explaining that he’d been driving the car of his not-friend-but-not-significant-other would surely complicate things. You understand why they didn’t tell him, even if you hate it with every fiber of your being.

Waking in a body a year older than what he remembered had to have been overwhelming enough. To be told he’d only hit his head and lost that time because he’d thrown an arm out to protect you - now a stranger - couldn’t possibly make his new reality easier to swallow.

The worst part - the part that keeps you awake and aching every night - is that if he’d just braced himself, hadn’t flung an arm, he might have come away from the accident better. Maybe he wouldn’t have lost any time at all. But he did; he did, even though you wore a seatbelt, as if on instinct, to protect you.

And now, you’re in the same place in a different car, but memories of a year of friendship exist only in your mind.

He’s still your Steve in a lot of ways - the Steve who made you laugh and was fiercely loyal and surprisingly dorky - but he’s different, too. His eyes are a little sadder - you didn’t miss his reaction to Robin’s news that Nancy and Jonathan were, and had been for a long time, a thing - and his tone is a little snappier. You see him catch himself at work, like he’s forcing himself to break habits of another person, trying to let himself be silly and soft. 

He didn’t just _decide_ to shed the King Steve persona; he’d had to work at it. And losing a year had set him further back than he liked. If you didn’t know him as well as you did, it might not even have been noticeable. But you _did_ know him. Even worse: you loved him. You still do, even if he doesn’t love you back, let alone know you as anything more than a bitchy coworker.

You miss him. _God_ , you miss him.

“Can I ask you something?” You ask.

He’s clearly surprised you’re addressing him, but quickly regains his composure after a flitting glance. His arm is out of its sling, and a thin cast stretches up to his bicep. Robin, Dustin, and the other kids’ names are scrawled across the pale blue plaster.

“Shoot,” he says.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

He exhales, a hand falling from the steering wheel to drum against his jeans.

“I was at the Byers’ house, watching the kids,” he says, sugarcoating a story he wasn’t aware you already knew. “Billy showed up looking for Max. When he saw her in the window, he went ballistic.” His brows furrow, and his features twist, the memory still fresh in his mind; you resist the urge to flinch at your own recollection of the night. “I followed him inside.”

A shudder rolls through you; you remember well what happened next. The memory tastes like soot on your tongue.

“I remember…Billy, on top of me, hitting me. He just-” he shakes his head, lips pursed “-kept hitting me. And then, he just…stopped.”

“He stopped?” Your stomach churns, and it takes all your effort to keep your tone neutral. Steve’s brows furrow.

“Someone pulled him off. Had to have been Max or one of the other kids,” he says.

“But you don’t remember who?”

He tossed a look in your direction, still confused you were engaging with him at all - you’d spent the last three weeks doing the opposite - and shook his head, shrugging a shoulder.

“No. It goes dark after that. One second, I’m on the Byers’ floor, and the next, I’m in the hospital a year later. And Billy’s dead, and the Byers’ are gone.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, and though you’re angry at him for reasons you don’t even fully understand, you mean it. You’re sorry he’s ten steps behind and struggling to catch up, sorry that he’s confused or lost or hurting.

You’re sorry about a million things you don’t have the words for.

**THEN**

It was stupid to go into the elevator. Anyone could have told you that. But even if you had known the real dangers that lurked below, would it have been enough? Would that have stopped any of you? Would that have kept the curiosity door locked?

It didn’t matter; you ended up taking the plunge, anyway, stuck who knows how many feet below the ground in a Russian elevator, with your coworkers and two children.

Dustin and Erica went to sleep hours ago, curled up like kittens in one corner, using backpacks and jackets for pillows. Even Robin had nodded off, leaning against a box, arms folded, leaving only you and Steve awake.

After hours of trying to figure out a plan and coming up empty, morale was low, and anxieties were high. You sat in one corner beside Steve, both your legs spread out in front of you, legs pressed together.

“At least if we die down here, our parents will stop giving us shit for not going to college,” you said, head lolling in Steve’s direction, a wicked grin tugging on your lips. He didn’t find the joke funny, and his mouth twisted into a frown.

“Hey,” he said, “we are _not_ dying down here. You hear me? It’s not happening. We’re gonna figure something out, and before you know it, we’ll be back to scooping ice cream for snotty ten-year-olds.”

“I’m not a child,” you said, the frustration and fear mixing into an explosive cocktail inside you. “Don’t patronize me.”

He frowned and shifted, so he was facing you, cross-legged, knees against your thigh.

“I’m not patronizing you. We _will_ get out of here.”

“And how do you know that? Can you see the future? Do you know something we don’t? Because, from where I’m sitting, we’re fucked.”

He let out a breath, lips pulling into a thin line. He took your hand, threading your fingers together, and squeezed once.

“I have no idea,” he said. “But it’s not part of the plan. Remember? Scooping ice cream at a shitty ice cream place, saving up, and getting the hell out of Hawkins.”

You smiled, and said, “I remember.”

**NOW**

“I’m sorry,” you say, and Steve thinks it might be the first time you’ve spoken to him without an edge to your words.

“I’m sorry, too,” he says, “for whatever I did to you. Knowing me, I probably can’t blame you for not liking me.”

You stiffen in his peripheral vision, face turned toward him, gaze burning into the side of his face. You seem to catch yourself after a beat, turning your attention back to the front of the car, suddenly interested in the power lines.

“You didn’t-”

A cat appears out of nowhere, and if Steve wasn’t so hyper-vigilant since waking to be told a car accident stole his memories, he might not have seen it in time.

He slams on the brakes, throwing out his cast-covered arm in front of you, moving before he blinks, before he breathes, before he does anything. The cat darts away, and the car rocks to a halt, and when Steve looks to make sure you’re okay, he sees two of you; one, eyes wide with shock and fear, and another, laughing and bobbing your head to music he can’t hear.

Just as quickly, the image clears, and you’re breathing heavy, but you’re not looking at him; you’re looking at the cast-covered arm hovering inches from your bandaged ribs. Something burns in the back of Steve’s mind, like a word on the tip of a tongue, but it isn’t close enough for him to catch.

You say nothing, not even when Steve apologizes profusely, and he doesn’t try to force you into a conversation for the rest of the drive. He has the mirrored images he saw the moment the car stopped replaying in his mind, but he doesn’t feel any closer to understanding what they mean. 

For the first time since he woke in a hospital bed three weeks ago, Steve gets the sense that something is missing.


	4. i envy the sea, have you seething

**NOW**

Robin is not one to pass up an opportunity to call someone out on their bullshit, and even you, her heartbroken, border-line pathetic best friend are not exempt from her brutal honesty. She lets you stew in your misery for a month before trapping you in her car and hitting you with a “you’re being an asshole, you know.”

Unaware the typical drive home from work is also an intervention, you frown and twist in your seat to face Robin. She doesn’t take her hands off the wheel, but she does send a pointed look your way, indicating that this is, in fact, not something you’d be getting out of.

“Care to elaborate?” You ask.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“You’re treating Steve like garbage, and he has no idea what he did to deserve it. You won’t tell him, so _I_ have to lie for you.”

“It was his mom’s idea-”

“And don’t give me that bullshit about his mom,” she interrupts, shaking her head, “because if you wanted to find a way around that, you’d have done it the day they discharged him. Instead, you’re punishing him.”

“I’m not _punishing_ him.”

“No? You’re snappy, and short, and downright rude. I know it feels like you lost him,” she says, flicking a glance your way, mouth twisted in a painful frown. “I lost him, too. But he’s still here. He’s still our Steve.”

You exhale, folding your arms against your chest. He is still your Steve, but sometimes, he’s a stranger; sometimes, he’s an echo of the cruel boy who ruled the high school hallways. It’s hard to figure out who you’re dealing with at each moment.

Something cracks open inside your chest, a month’s worth of sadness and loss and longing spilling out, a sob bubbling up in your chest. You shove it back down, composing yourself enough to say, “I don’t know how to pretend not to love him.”

A sad smile tugs on Robin’s lips, and she lets a hand fall from the wheel, holding it out to you. You take it gratefully, holding tight to her fingers.

“I know you’re… _upset_ about it,” she says. “But it isn’t his fault.”

“I’m not _upset_.” You straighten and force back the angry tears welling in your eyes. “I’m _furious_. And I know it isn’t his fault, _I know that_ logically, but _god_ , Robin, I’m so angry at him. I’m so angry at him for forgetting and for leaving me.” The last word cracks as it tumbles out, and a tear snakes down your cheek after it. You wipe it away angrily, keeping your gaze locked on the horizon out the front window, refusing to look at Robin.

“You’re blaming him for something he doesn’t know he did,” she says. “He doesn’t understand what happened, and he sure as hell doesn’t understand what he did to make you treat him this way. And I’m not saying you have to be his best friend again, or tell him everything, but you have to tell him _something_.”

“I can’t!”

“If the roles were reversed, is this how he’d be treating you?” She demands, and the fire washes out of you, retort dying on your lips.

It isn’t. If the roles were reversed, he’d be by your side even if you didn’t know him; he’d have been the first face you saw when you woke. He’d be fighting for you, for what you were together. Not snapping at you and shutting you and wielding hostility like a shield in front of him.

It isn’t fair; the way you’re treating him, or the accident, or any of it. None of it is fair, and it all hurts, and you can’t see an ending that doesn’t continue to break you to pieces.

Shame burns inside you, and angry tears fall down your cheeks, ignored. Robin doesn’t let go of your hand, but she doesn’t point out the tears or the sniffles or the fact that _she’s right, of course, she’s right._

“I just miss him,” you say softly. Robin squeezes your hand, and when you risk a glance her way, you see moisture in her eyes.

“I know,” she says, “I miss him, too.”

**THEN**

There wasn’t much time to catch up with Dustin and Erica once they sprung you from the Russians interrogation, let alone any time to check in with Steve and Robin. Robin was in far better shape, only affected by the drugs like you with a little roughing around the edges. In contrast, Steve - the fool playing hero - drew all the guard’s attention to himself and landed himself with the most beatings.

He’s had enough concussions over the past few years to worry you, but he didn’t seem to be all that bothered, giggling like a schoolgirl as he climbed into the back of the cart, and the drugs winding through your own system made it hard to stay that way.

You didn’t get a chance to breathe until after Dustin and Erica plopped the three of you into theater seats, and you immediately proceeded to desert them in search of a water fountain. Robin lunged for the fountain first once you exited the theater, and you turned to Steve as she drank, reaching out to ghost a thumb beneath his swollen eye. He winced, and your lips turned down in a frown.

“Stupid,” you said, shaking your head. His lips quirked up in a lopsided grin.

“You’re welcome.”

“You don’t get a thank you for self-sacrifice when no one asked for it.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of self-sacrifice?”

You swatted his arm lightly, careful not to aggravate any of his many wounds. God, you wished you had a first aid kit. And a change of clothes. And a gallon of water. And a bazooka to tell off the Russians for good. None of which you had, or were likely to get any time soon; not even the water, seeing as Robin had married the fountain.

“You could have died. They could have killed you.”

“But, they didn’t.”

“But they could have.”

“And yet,” he said, holding his arms out and gesturing to himself, that same grin on his face, “I’m still kicking.”

“Don’t ever do anything like that again. Do you hear me? If something happened…if you’d-” you stopped, unable to even say the word. Steve’s smile slipped from his lips, and he stepped closer to you, taking your hand in his. Had the circumstances not already been so goddamn weird, you’d have been surprised. But right now, Steve was hurt, but he was there, beside you, and you couldn’t remember a time when you didn’t want him right where he was. Safe and with you.

In a soft tone, he said, “I’m okay. Seriously. It looks worse than it is.”

“It looks really _fucking_ bad.”

His brows twitched, and one side of his mouth curved up.

“Worried about me?”

“I’m always worried about you.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” he said. “Remember? We’re in this together.”

You nodded, but the lingering worry put a crease between your brows and a frown on your lips; he couldn’t promise that.

Steve’s hand moved from your fingers up to your cheek, making your pulse leap.

“We’re gonna get out of this,” he said. “We always do.”

He bent toward you, the air crackling with the anticipation of the kiss, and you stretched your chin up to meet him. Before your lips touched, though, Robin coughed violently from behind you, and you lurched apart.

Your oblivious cock-block had choked on her water and was wiping the droplets from her mouth. Robin gestured to the fountain and said, “Who’s up?” Effectively ending the moment - if it _had_ been a moment, and not just a drug-induced almost mistake. You had no way of knowing which.

**NOW**

You’ve gotten quite good at avoiding Steve at work, but tonight, you’re the only two scheduled, and with no customers and a boatload of films to stock, you end up together in the back room, surrounded by boxes of recently-released movies. Steve dragged in a little radio and flipped it on, soft, staticky music filling the tense silence between you.

After half an hour of pretending not to look at you and a whole lot of screwing around, Steve finally speaks; it’s actually a relief, after thirty minutes of quiet agony. But nothing could have prepared you for the words that come out of his mouth.

“It was your car,” he says, and though the words would be gibberish to anyone else, you know exactly what he’s referring to. Your breath catches, and you drop a Rambo VHS tape onto the linoleum, lifting your gaze to Steve’s across the small room. “The accident, it was your car.”

“How did you-”

“I broke my arm when you broke your ribs,” he says. “You were with me, and you didn’t tell me.”

“I was,” you say.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

There’s no explanation you can give that would satisfy him; you were scared, and angry, and upset, and made a million mistakes. Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“What else didn’t you tell me?” He asks. “How long have we known each other?”

You wince, pressing your lips together. You’d hoped to keep this door closed, but Steve has jammed a foot right in, and a stubborn Steve Harrington will find a way to get what he wants. 

“It wasn’t Max or one of the other kids that pulled Billy Hargrove off of you that night,” you say, “it was me.”

“What?” He asks. You ignore him and continue. The memories have been battering against your skull for weeks, desperate to be shared once again, and now that you’ve cracked the window, they’re spilling out.

“We went down into the tunnels with Dustin and the kids. I stitched you up. When we graduated, and your dad didn’t show, it was me that cheered for you. And when you got rejection letters to colleges, I opened them with you. I was there for the Russian code, and for everything down in the base. I was there for all of it.”

Steve is quiet for a long time before he says, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s my fault you forgot it,” you say. Confusion dots his features, and the pain in his expression makes you look away. “If you hadn’t tried to…to protect me, you would have caught yourself on the wheel. You’d be fine.”

It’s a half-truth, the full reality too much to handle: _you told me you loved me and now you don’t know you did any of it_.

“For a month,” he says, lips pulling thin, “you’ve been walking around like I kicked your puppy. And now you’re telling me we were friends?”

There is no simple answer to that question, either. Almosts are never simple. Almosts are coming so close to everything you’ve wanted that you can taste it; almosts always fall away. They crash and burn, or they spark and fizzle out, or they silently leak away like a forgotten drip from a leaky faucet. They are walking tragedies and stories without endings.

And Steve has no idea how close you got, has no idea the relief you felt after a year of skirting around each other, to finally say _I want this. I want you_. He has no idea how hard it is to swallow that _almost_ , that _nearly there_. It’s like you’re Atlas, staggering beneath the weight of the world, and Steve shouldered the whole burden of loving onto you, forgetting he’d even let it go.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “Your mom and the doctor, they thought it would be easier to adjust without all the confusion. And I…I didn’t fight it.”

“How could you…you’ve…” he trails off, the hurt evident in his features, each painful twist of his face adding to the ache in your chest. “You lied to me. What else are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“How can I trust that?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair impatiently. “When you’ve lied about everything else?”

His words cut like needles, and the fact that they’re true makes it even worse. He’s right; Robin’s right. He doesn’t deserve this; no one deserves this. Certainly not someone you love, someone who - once upon a time - loved you back.

“You want to know the truth?” You snap, anger and pain and frustration blooming in your chest. Steve nods, his own face contorted in frustration.

“Fine,” you say. “Fine. The truth? We were never just friends. Not like you and Robin, or me and Robin. We were always something more, and we didn’t figure it out until the night before the accident.”

A line forms between his brows, but he waits for you to continue. You exhale sharply.

“You told me…you told me that you loved me. And you then you kissed me. And then you drove me home. And the next day, when you picked me up, we hit a patch of ice,” you say, the memory flickering behind your lids. “And next thing I know, you’re in a hospital bed, and your mom is telling me you don’t know who I am, and you’re looking at me like I’m a stranger.” The words come out harsh and cold, not what you intend but unstoppable once the door has been cracked.

Steve is staring at you like he’s never seen you before, and the lack of familiarity in his gaze is like a thousand simultaneous punches to the gut.

“So, there. That’s the truth. Happy now?” You snap. Steve’s lips part and he averts his gaze, cheeks flushing.

“I don’t…I don’t remember,” he says, and it means more than just _I don’t remember_. It means: _I don’t remember feeling that way._ it means: _I don’t feel that way._

Another piece of your heart splinters off, and as if spurred by your desperation to get the hell out of that tiny room, the bell above the front door dings, signaling a customer’s entrance. You lurch to your feet, pausing at the door to look back at Steve, a sad smile on your lips.

“I know you don’t,” you say. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. So you wouldn’t look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.” With pity, with shame, with that stabbing unfamiliarity that never ceases to take your breath away.

**THEN**

Somehow, you’re the only one out of the trio that didn’t bolt to the bathroom to puke, leaving Robin and Steve alone to hack out their lungs in the nasty stalls. It turned into a surprising bout of bonding, ending in muppet impersonations and uncontrollable giggles that signified the lingering presence of the drugs in their veins.

“What about Y/N?” Robin asked. She slid her sneaker along the red metal of the stall divider and nudged Steve’s shoulder, forcing his attention back to her face.

“What _about_ Y/N?”

“You think I missed what almost happened out there?”

“And here I thought you were too busy guzzling shitty tap water to notice,” he said. Robin gave him a patronizing look, to which he shrugged, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. “What’s there to say?”

“Uh, maybe that you _like_ them? And they like you?”

“Robin-”

“You may not remember me from high school, but I remember you. I’ve seen you with girls before. And the way you are with Y/N is different. _They_ make you different.”

“Less of a raging douchebag?” He asked, half kidding. Robin kicked him again.

“Who you are isn’t what you’ve done. And while you’re still somewhat of a douchebag,” she said, lips curving up in a teasing smile, “you’re also a surprisingly nice guy.”

“Was that a compliment, Buckley?”

“Don’t cream your pants, Harrington.”

“That’s my line.”

“You’re quite good at changing the subject.”

“Another compliment? You’re gonna make me blush.”

“Like that blush you were sporting outside?”

“Stick your head back in the toilet, will you?”

Robin grinned, and said, “You and Y/N want some more privacy?”

**NOW**

_I know you don’t._ Your words batter against Steve’s skull, killing any chance that he finishes the work he’s supposed to before clocking out. And considering he has another hour on the clock, it’s fitting to be a long _fucking_ hour.

He wishes he could just…remember. He wishes he could just dig into his head and pull out all the things he’s forgotten, but he doesn’t even know if they still exist anywhere. If the memories and the time are too far out of reach, never to be recovered.

He wishes he could go back to the days after he woke up when he didn’t know just how much he was missing; when his lost time didn’t hurt anyone else. When you were just the coworker who didn’t like him, not the person he’d broken. Not the person that looked at him with eyes sadder than he’d ever seen, not the person who blames themselves for his losses.

But most of all, he wishes there was an easy solution, a button to press or an equation to solve. His life has never been simple, but before, his problems were parallel universes and monsters. There were gates to close and creatures to slay.

This isn’t something he can beat away with a bat. This is something much bigger, something non-tangible, something he has no clue how to repair.


	5. so damn reluctant to expose it to me

**NOW**

Of all the people Steve expected to grow closer to after losing his memory, his ex-girlfriend was at the bottom of the list. While it might have been over a year since the fallout of the Halloween party, for Steve, it only feels like the month and a half since he woke in the hospital have passed. For the first few weeks, just thinking about Nancy Wheeler made him sick, rendered him a heartbroken mess.

Then things started to come back. Not memories, exactly, not even clear images, but _feelings_. Moments of seeing double, of deja vu so strong it makes him double over. Each morning, he wakes with the understanding he saw something in his dreams, but he can never remember what it is. It’s like when you wake up and remember someone from a dream, remember the pain and the caring of loving them, with no idea who _them_ is.

All he really knows is that the aching, painful twinges he once felt every time he saw Nancy have gone away.

Nancy is the only person who’s known him before and after; he only met Robin that summer, and it’s not as if he can go to you, again. You, who won’t even look at him anymore. 

So, when Nancy calls and asks if he wants to get coffee, he accepts the offer, in the hopes of answering the questions battering around inside his skull, in the hopes of finding some semblance of normalcy in an old friend.

The Nancy from before, the one he wooed in school hallways - shy and timid and quiet - is not the Nancy that walks through the cafe door. She was always beautiful, but now, her beauty is almost _commanding_. She’s grown into herself, hoisted her confidence high, found peace in her path.

Steve feels a twinge of jealousy upon seeing her, though not for the reasons he’d expected - not for her ‘new’ relationship, but for the ease with which she moves through the world. Once upon a time, Steve walked around like that; like he was untouchable. It’s only now that he’s come to realize that was always an act; always a wall flung up in the hopes of protecting himself. Not genuine, like with Nancy.

Nancy smiles and sits down across from him at the small table, already purchased coffee in hand. She sets down a second coffee cup, and Steve glances at the container; the same thing he always gets.

“Hey,” she says. “You still like Americano’s, right?” Her gaze drops to the cup, and Steve nods, lips curving up in a lopsided grin.

“You remembered.”

“I wasn’t sure if you did,” she says. It takes Steve a moment to realize its a joke; he laughs a moment too late, which makes Nancy laugh, too.

He expected it to hurt, sitting here with her, but it feels more normal than anything else has. At the end of the day, Nancy Wheeler is his friend, regardless of whether they’d once been more. He’s overwhelmingly grateful for that.

“Nah, still got my coffee order down. It’s the important stuff that’s gone,” he says, meaning for it to come out light, the tone instead harsh. Nancy’s lips pull thin, and her gaze softens.

“How have you been holding up?”

Steve’s smile slips from his lips, and he exhales, sitting back against the booth, the old leather squeaking with the movement.

“It’s like I’m ten steps behind. And every time I take one forward, something happens that sends me back two more. It’s like I’m…” he trails off, shaking his head, unable to find the word to describe just how _suffocating_ it is. To know you’re missing things, to see the impact of them in others, and not know what they are.

“Drowning?” Nancy finishes, a brow cocked. Steve sighs.

“Yeah,” he says. “Like drowning.”

“Have you talked about it with Robin? Or with-” Nancy cuts herself off, regret flashing in her eyes.

“You don’t have to do that.” He crosses his arms and shrugs. “I…I know. About Y/N.”

“Oh.” Nancy straightens, eyes wide. She purses her lips, worrying over her words for a moment before speaking. “You know…everything?”

Steve frowns.

“What do _you_ know?”

Nancy bites on the inside of her lip and gives him an apologetic smile. She’s clearly relieved not to keep up the charade.

“I mean, it’s not like you and I ever _talked_ about it, or anything. But anybody who was around could see it.”

“See what?” He asks, though he’s afraid of the answer; not that it changes much, or tells him more he didn’t already know.

Nancy hesitates, like she’s not sure she should say, like she doesn’t know if it’s _hers_ to say.

“That…you _loved_ them,” she says. “Even when we were together, you never looked at me like that. You never looked at anyone like that. That’s how I knew. How we all did.”

“What, so, everyone knew about this before we did?”

Nancy’s lips curve up.

“There was a bet going, actually. Dustin started it.”

“Of course he did,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

“You’re both stubborn,” she says. “And you were both oblivious to the point of ridiculousness. You were so convinced the other person was looking somewhere else, when all you were doing was looking at each other. Even if this-” her cheeks flush, but Steve understands - _this_ being the accident and the lost time, “-hadn’t gotten in the way, I don’t know if you two ever would have figured it out. It was actually painful to watch, sometimes.” She gives him a tiny smile at that. But something isn’t quite right; the version of events given by you contradict Nancy’s variation.

“I think we did,” he says, brows furrowing. “Y/N said…they said that I told them. Just before the accident.”

Nancy sucks in a breath, a heavy sadness settling on her features.

“And you still don’t remember anything?”

Translation: he still doesn’t remember _them_? This person everyone tells him he loved, who won’t even look at him at work, now.

“No,” he says, “I don’t.”

_But I wish I did. God, I wish I did._

**THEN**

The girl with the sharply cut blonde bob and annoyingly blue eyes had come in to talk to Steve three times this week, and you swore if you had to watch her nauseating flirting for another minute, you’d spontaneously combust.

The jealousy living in your belly grew each day, threatening to choke you. It had come out of nowhere, rearing its head the first time a girl smiled at Steve in the store, and it had taken another few occurrences for you to realize what the feeling was.

And realizing it only made it worse. Realizing you were in love with your best friend was like stomping barefoot on legos, and realizing he’d probably never love you back was like stomping barefoot on legos with needles poking out the tops. So, like, _really fucking painful._

To your horror, and bottomless frustration, the girl slipped Steve her number on a slip of paper before winking and exiting the store, all without renting a movie - at least she was consistent. Steve, looking a little bewildered, stared blankly down at the paper before shoving it into his pocket.

Trying to keep the disdain out of your voice, you made your way to the counter and leaned against it, saying, “Well, someone’s popular.”

His brows arched for a moment before the realization dawned and he averted his gaze with a dismissive shrug, cheeks flushing pink.

“Robin needs to update the new whiteboard, I guess,” you said, words snappier than intended. Steve’s lips parted, confusion dotting his features.

“Are you mad at me?”

“ _What_?” You retorted. “ _No_. Why would I be mad?”

He crinkled his nose and half gestured to his pocket and the hidden paper inside. You flinched, willing the blush to stay off your cheeks, and scoffed.

“I don’t care _who_ gives you their number. Go out with miss perfection if you want.”

An amused smile tugged on his lips.

“Miss perfection, huh?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, don’t think I do,” he said, his amusement lingering.

“Just-I mean, obviously she’s-just-” you grumble a sigh, “ _Never mind_. I’m gonna take my break.” You moved around the counter, headed for the break room, but Steve snaked a hand out and caught your wrist with a, “Wait.” You stopped, reluctantly turning to face him, arching your brows, as if to ask, _what do you want, now?_

The teasing smile was gone, replaced by a softer look, one that made your stomach flip.

“I’m not,” he said, “gonna call her.”

“You’re not?”

He shook his head, a smile ghosting his lips.

“Why not? She’s…”

“Not really my type,” he said with a shrug. “Besides, I’m kind of already into someone else.”

The butterflies fluttering around in your stomach went haywire, and you fought past the fear and excitement and uncertainty blooming in your chest. He was your friend; he didn’t want to be anything else.

Right?

**NOW**

It was Robin’s idea for him to ‘get back out there’ - her words, not his - but Steve had to admit a little distraction might be nice. He spends all his time around people he’s forgotten time with or forgotten altogether, and as much as he wants to repair the relationships he already has, the idea of being around someone who doesn’t know him as _‘Steve: Minus A Year_ ’ is fairly appealing.

So, when a pretty girl named Elody starts hanging around the video store, not renting things but lingering and making conversation, he takes Robin’s advice, and asks her out. She happily accepts, jotting down her number on a sheet of paper and sliding it across the counter to him.

They’re seeing a movie in town, some comedy he let her choose, and though he has half an hour before he even needs to leave, he’s an anxious mess.

He doesn’t remember himself as being nervous, always unshakeable in this category. He might even have been called suave, once upon a time. But apparently, that skill of his disappeared within the last year and he just can’t remember it.

He’s so occupied with the pacing across his room he almost misses the phone ringing in the background. Last he saw his mom, she was tucked into the couch with a bottle of wine, so the chances of her answering it are slim to none. With a sigh, he lifts the receiver from the box on his desk and holds it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Steve?” The word is shaky and slurred, and a little marred by the phone, but he recognizes your voice, a frown twisting his lips.

“ _Hellooo_? Steve? Steeeeeve Harrington?” You ask again. Steve recovers, clearing his throat and tightening his grip on the phone.

“I’m here,” he says. “Y/N?”

“Mhmm.”

“What…what are you…” He doesn’t know how to say it without sounding like a dick: _why are you calling me if you hate me or are angry at me or whatever it is you are, because I don’t know._

“Your number’s the only one I’got memnorized. Menorized. Men-” your words are slow and slurred, and Steve’s brows furrow.

“Are you…drunk?”

“Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner! Give the boy a-a prize!”

Steve lets out a breath and sits down on the edge of his bed, the phone still pressed to his ear.

“Look, I’m not trying to sound like a dick, but…why are you calling me?”

There’s a moment’s pause on the other side, and when you speak, your words are hauntingly sober.

“I didn’t have anyone else to call,” you say. He hears a hiccup, and then you’re back to the intoxication, tripping over your words. “I’m at some stupid party, and my parents will kill me if I go home drunk, which I can’t do even if I want to because I can’t drive, and Robin’s out of town for a band concert, and I’m, very, very drunk, and-”

“Where are you? I’m coming to get you,” Steve says without a moment’s consideration. Immediately after he says it, he thinks of Elody, of their plans; of her nice smile and a night of easy conversation. Then he thinks of you, drunk and alone; he knows what happens to people who walk alone at night in Hawkins; he knows there are more monsters in this world than just the Demogorgon’s he’s fought. But most of all, he thinks of the look on your face when you said _I know you don’t_ like it broke your heart in half to say; something yawns open inside him, something he doesn’t have words for, something he doesn’t really understand.

 _Fuck_.

You feed him an address that he quickly jots down.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he says. “Try not to drink any more or do anything stupid before I get there.”

“No promises,” you chirp, and hang up the phone.

Eight minutes later, he’s pulling up in front of the house. He vaguely recognizes it; the home of some kid Robin’s year, notorious for throwing ragers when his parents were gone. The yard is littered with red solo cups and music pulses out the open windows on the second floor.

Steve has barely climbed out of the car when the front door opens and you amble down the steps, unsteady, a cup in your hands, liquid sloshing over the edge and you make your way across the grass. He jogs to reach you, catching you just before you lose your balance on a stray cup, using an arm to keep you up. You straighten, gripping his arm tightly.

“Steve!” You slur, lips curled up in a smile. “You’re here!”

“I’m here,” he says, giving you a once over, “and you really _are_ drunk.”

You hold up three fingers and give a mock salute. “On God, I’m not.”

“That’s a lie. And I’m _pretty sure_ that’s for Boy Scouts. Which I’m 100% sure you are _not_.”

You pout and poke him in the chest.

“You don’t remember me, _remember_? Wouldn’t know either way!” The words are light, soured with the alcohol buzzing in your blood, but they still hit Steve like needles. Luckily, you’re too tipsy to talk and walk, and he gets you into the car without another word.

“Why is it so clean in here? It’s _never_ clean in here,” you say, frowning and looking around the car. A blush rises to Steve’s cheeks, though he doesn’t understand why. The realization that you’ve been in his car enough to notice little changes - he’d known that, but _seeing it_ \- makes his stomach twist. He rubs the back of his neck and avoids your gaze, starting the car.

“I, uh, kinda have a date tonight. Or, I guess, _had_ a date tonight.”

“Uh oh,” you say. “What’d you do?”

He snorts.

“Blew her off to pick up your drunk ass,” he says. You frown, but after a moment, a smile replaces it; it’s amusing, seeing so much emotion from you after facing the cold shoulder for six weeks.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. So, if you puke in my car, I’m gonna be pissed.”

You smile, and fold your arms across your chest. Before letting them settle, you frown and remove them; the injury is still bugging you, it seems. Your gaze slides to Steve, and he’s grateful to have the road to focus on.

When Steve reaches his house, you head - unsteady, but purposeful - up his driveway and to the door, waiting silently and patiently as he unlocks the door and opens it. He’s surprised when you move for the stairs without asking where to go, though he shouldn’t be; he knows you’ve been here, even if he doesn’t remember it.

He follows you to his bedroom, which you navigate to with ease, shutting the door behind you. You kick your shoes off and tug open the top drawer of his dresser, and he watches in shock as you pull out a pair of sweats and a tee that are so obviously _not his_ \- which means, they’re _yours_ \- and head to the bathroom to change. Once you’re finished, you amble back into the bedroom and drop down onto the edge of the bed, your old clothes balled in your hands.

“How long ago did I give you a drawer?” He asks. You lift your gaze to his.

“You didn’t,” you say. “I took it. After last summer, I was here pretty much every night. Had my own little pad for the floor, and everything.”

He sits down beside you, leaning into his knees, feeling the absence of what seems like a lifetime of memories.

“I’m sorry you missed your date,” you say, and it actually sounds genuine; surprising, seeing as most of your words to Steve these days are laced with spikes.

He just shrugs; there isn’t much to say.

“I’m sorry,” you continue, “for being such an… _asshole_ , too. You don’t-it’s not fair. And I’m-” you stop and take in a large breath, “I’m _sorry_.”

Steve’s jaw tightens; the sadness in your voice tugs at something deep inside him, like a sleeping giant, yearning to find the surface; it still can’t, still hovers just out of Steve’s reach.

“I’m sorry, too,” he says. “For forgetting.”

You turn to look at him, and Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen a smile so sad in his life.

“It’s not your fault.” Your gaze is a little unfocused, alcohol glazing your eyes, but there’s overwhelming truth in your words. “I’ve been actin’ like it is, like you did this on purpose, but I know you didn’t. I know you didn’t ask for this.”

“It isn’t your fault, either,” he says, thinking of your words in the video store - _because it’s my fault you forgot it_ and _if you hadn’t tried to protect me_ , “For being in the car. I might have hit my head, even if you weren’t. But me…putting my arm out like that, it wasn’t your fault. Everything that happened, it isn’t your fault.”

You give him a grateful smile, one that’s almost pitying, almost disbelieving, like _I appreciate the effort even if it’s complete bullshit._

“You know I don’t hate you, right?” You ask. Steve frowns, but nods. You sigh and lay back on the bed, legs hanging off, hands folded across your stomach. “I wish I did, sometimes. It’d be easier.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, because its all he can.

You shrug one shoulder.

“Sometimes, I wish I forgot, too.”

Steve’s lips part, shame and frustration and other indecipherable feelings coiling like a snake in his gut.

“I wish I remembered,” he says. “I wish I remembered so badly.”

“S’okay that you don’t.”

“No,” he says, “it’s not.”

You sigh, and say, “No, it’s not. But it is what it is.”

And it’s true; these are the cards, and they’ve been dealt, and that’s that; that’s all there is. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it; that doesn’t mean he has to be okay with it.

Because he _wants_ to remember. He wants to remember meeting Robin at Scoops, and taking Dustin to the snow ball, and graduating high school. He wants to remember the little things and the big ones, the good and the bad. He wants to fill the year-wide hole in his chest.

But most of all, more than anything, he wants to remember you.


	6. and then you pulled the rug

**NOW/THEN**

In the dream that is not a dream - that is too vibrant and clear and _real_ to be anything but a memory, dragged from the depths - Steve is tied to a chair, Robin tied behind him, and you facing them, tied to chair on their side. His head is turned your way, and he’s hit with a wave of fear and anxiety and something else, something else that flickers to life when he sees you, struggling against your bindings, one eye bruised and bloody. When you notice his gaze on you your head snaps up, relief filling your eyes.

“Steve?” You ask.

“Oh my god, _Steve_? Are you okay?” Robin asks from behind him, shuffling - in vain - in an attempt to see him. She gives up with a sharp exhale and looks to you for confirmation of his status. You scan him up and down with pursed lips and meet Robin’s gaze.

“He looks like shit,” you say, “but I think he’s okay.” You look to him, gaze softening, and his stomach twists. The Steve from the memory knows what that feeling means - he doesn’t know how he knows, but he does - but the Steve watching - the one dreaming - can’t pin the swirling emotions inside him. “ _Are_ you okay?”

“Fantastic,” he says sarcastically, earning a tiny smile from you.

“Liar,” you retort. He shrugs a shoulder dismissively, then winces at the pain that rolls through his chest. A broken rib, at the very least. Your eyes narrow, concern flitting across your features.

“Seriously,” he says. “Could probably run-n a marathon right now.” The words come out a little slurred, to his disdain, but it still makes you smile.

“You couldn’t run a marathon at your best,” you say.

“Yeah, you’re not exactly at the top of your jock game right now,” Robin seconds.

“Both of your support is so touching.”

You snort a laugh, and though it isn’t appropriate for the situation, he laughs, too, and so does Robin, the three of you giggling like schoolchildren in a secret Russian base between the mall. It’s too ridiculous to do anything other than laugh; the other option is to cry, to be afraid, to scream, and none of those are appealing; none of those allow him to hear your laugh.

He wishes he could bottle it up and carry it around with him, bring it out when things are hard or hurt. It’s his favorite sound in the world.

The words slide into his head with no more weight than any of his other thoughts, but they stop him in his tracks, make his heart stop and his breath catch.

 _I love you_ , he thinks. He realizes he has for a long time, since after he woke beside you in the car and before you graduated.

He looks at you, at your rumpled Scoops uniform and the bruise blooming around your eye and the fierce determination in your eyes, and thinks it again: _I love you._

**NOW**

You wake with a pounding headache in a room you don’t recognize curled in the arms of someone who’s face you can’t see. The brief and fuzzy memories of the night before are slow to return, but you can’t remember anything past filling up your cup in the kitchen; nothing that tells you where you are, or who you’re with.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dim light of the room, the thick curtains letting little in, and the first thing you see is a desk with a bowling pin and a vaguely mushroom-looking lamp.

_Steve’s room._

You’re dreaming, then. Dreaming that you’re here, with him. Dreaming that the world has righted itself, has fixed its mistakes.

You shift ever so slightly, not wanting to wake Dream-Steve, but when you lift your eyes to make sure his are still shut, you find him watching you with a sleepy smile. Your stomach flips over and a smile tugs on your lips. You let a hand settle against his cheek - it _feels_ real enough - and tilt your chin up to kiss him, hesitating a beat from his lips. Something tickles at the back of your mind; is it possible to be hungover in a dream?

Just as the thought enters your mind, a frown tugs on Steve’s lips, and it all snaps into place, the last piece of memory settling; the party, the alcohol, the vague feeling you’d called someone.

 _Not a dream_.

You jerk away from Steve and sit up, nearly falling off the bed in the process, unsteady, entire body aching like you’d been hit by a truck. You catch your balance and drop back down onto the mattress, clamping your mouth shut as nausea rolls through you.

Steve sits up behind you, his brows furrowed, looking at you like your face is painted green or you’re wearing a weird hat; like he knows you, but at the same time, doesn’t.

You avert your gaze and bring your hands up to your temples, massaging the headache that refuses to lessen, letting out a groan.

“Please tell me I didn’t do anything stupid.”

“You were surprisingly behaved,” he says, tapping your shoulder and getting his attention, his lips curved up in a smile. “Other than taking over my bed, which _apparently_ , you used to do all the time, so ‘ _don’t be a douche and deal with it_ ’.” He uses air quotes for the last part, and his light tone alleviates your worry of making a fool of yourself.

You crinkle your nose. “Sorry. If I was difficult.”

“No, you were fine. _Super_ nice. You even apologized for being a dick.”

“I haven’t been a-” you cut yourself off at Steve’s cocked brow. “Okay, fine. Well, at least I didn’t have to witness it. Sober me.”

He snorts a laugh, and you’re surprised to find yourself smiling, too.

It feels very normal, more normal than anything has in months. You’ve wielded your anger as a shield, kept the longing at bay until night falls and it all smacks into you. He’s there, right in front of you, but you don’t think you’ve ever missed him more.

It’s unfair. So incredibly, ridiculously, horribly unfair. And there’s nothing you can do about that but accept it; accept that it’s over. Really, truly, over.

**THEN**

You’d never seen the stockroom so packed. Someone - _Steve_ \- had accidentally ordered 100 copies of each film in the new shipment as opposed to the usual 10, and it was up to you two to pack everything back up and send the extras back before Keith returned from his time off post wisdom teeth surgery. Which, gave you two days. Two days to fix a _massive_ problem.

“I can’t believe you didn’t double-check the zero’s,” you mumbled under your breath - for the _n_ th time - and closed another box, strapping tape across it and adding it to the pile by the door.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Steve retorted, “I’m an idiot, I get it.”

“I’m glad you’re aware.”

He snorted and turned to the shelves behind him, stretching up to grab a box from the top. Even with his height, he couldn’t quite get a reach on it, and fumbled aimlessly with his fingers. He put one foot on the bottom shelf to give him a few more inches at the cost of his balance, and you slipped around the box piles to join him.

“You’re so going to fall,” you mused, hands on your hips.

“Yeah, thanks for the help, by the way,” he huffed, blowing a strand of hair out of his face and stretching up again. His fingers brushed the box, edging it closer.

“Be careful. Your brain can’t take more concussions.”

“What? Come on. I’ve got a skull of steel.”

“That,” you said pointedly, “is not a real thing. _Concussions_ are. _Brain damage_ is.”

He craned his head to shoot you a grin.

“You’re cute when you’re worried.”

Heat flushed your cheeks and you huffed in annoyance, folding your arms across your chest.

“ _Just_ -get down.”

“I’ve almost got it!” He said, the box halfway over the edge. He nudged it all the way over and lost it on the way down. You both ducked to catch it, barely managing to stop it from slamming into the floor. You lowered it carefully to the ground and stood up, unaware of how close you were until you were standing straight, nearly knocking his nose with yours in the process.

His breath was warm on your cheeks, and his gaze flicked down to your mouth, then back up. His eyes were blown, plump lips parted, and the urge to kiss him was so overwhelming it ached.

“You okay?” He breathed. You nodded, trapped in his gaze, heart beating a mile a minute.

“Are _you_ okay?”

He nodded, eyes dropping to your lips again, and you could see the moment he decided to kiss you. His expression changed, softened, and one of his hands found its way to your waist, and he bent toward you, _and_ -

The stockroom door swung open and you jumped apart just as Robin sauntered in, struggling beneath a stack of empty boxes. She set them down with a huff and propped her hands on her hips, surveying the room, and the two of you. At your close proximity, her lips quirked up into a smug grin, and you and Steve took another step away from each other.

“How goes the disaster clean up?” She asked, cocking her brows and jerking a chin at the boxes.

You prayed Robin didn’t notice the flush on your cheeks, or the way you and Steve were pointedly not looking at each other (which she did, of course, but the interrogations would come later, and individually).

“Great,” Steve said. “Easy peasy. The time is just _flying_ by.”

Robin scoffed. “Mhmm.”

**NOW**

Steve wants to ask you if the dream he had was actually a memory, but the subject matter makes it a tenuous one. It isn’t exactly fair of him to spring it on you while you’re stuck in his car, hungover.

After downing ibuprofen, a muffin, and half a gallon of water, you’re mostly functioning, though the frown on your face tells Steve that now is not the time to poke the bear.

He can’t stop thinking about that feeling in his chest, that aching, pulling, gnawing, but still somehow _incredible_ feeling. That feeling when the words popped into his head in the dream and he felt the sky break open above him.

He loved Nancy Wheeler, but he didn’t love her like that. Like he loved - is it past tense? He doesn’t know anymore - you. And he understands now, why you were so angry. Why he caught you looking at him like he’d kicked your puppy. He’s angry at himself. For hurting you - for hurting everyone, really but most importantly _you_.

“Thank you,” you say eventually. “For answering. And for picking me up. _And_ for letting me take over your bed. I’m sorry if I was a mess.”

He shrugs a shoulder dismissively, sending you a lopsided, but genuine, smile.

“I’m just glad you didn’t spend the night on someone’s lawn.”

“Me too.”

“And…you don’t have to apologize. You’d do it for me. We always took care of each other, right?”

Your lips pull into a thin line and you nod.

“We did.” You pause, gaze shifting to the dash. “But…I know those people are gone. We aren’t them anymore. You certainly aren’t, and I’m starting to think…maybe I’m not, either. But I can’t keep…waiting for you to remember. It’s not fair to either of us.”

Steve’s lips part, and he wishes he had the power to gather up your words and shove them back inside, rip them apart before they hit the ground. Steal this moment and tuck it away somewhere it can’t be found. He knows where this is going, and all of a sudden, the thought of losing you in any capacity makes him feel sick.

“I wish we’d gotten more time than we did. But we didn’t, and I need to accept it. Move on.”

You turn to look at him, and though he knows it’ll only make the twisting in his gut worse, he can’t help but risk a glance; he sees nothing but the wall you’ve thrown up against him in your eyes. He didn’t realize you’d let it down, and the absence was like getting the breath punched out of him.

“I’ll give you space,” you say. The panic rises in Steve’s chest, but he can’t find the words. He’s confused and feeling too much, and he can’t sort through any of it long enough to pull something coherent out.

In the end, he doesn’t find the words at all; he drops you at your house with a mere, “Goodbye,” and drives away, kicking himself the whole time. All he can think about is the twist in his chest at the sight of you walking away.

The realization hits him much harder than it did the first time, chased with pain and regret, like a shock to the chest. Like remembering lyrics to a song you once adored; you’ve always known it, always cared for it, even if you tucked it away.

 _I love you_ , he thinks. _And I’m too late._


	7. i'm getting homesick for a place i've never known

**THEN**

Winter had settled in Hawkins, the cold an ever-present blanket hanging over the town. The first snowfall came late in November, tiny flakes dropping slowly and dusting the streets. You were stuck behind the counter at work, watching the flurries through the window and willing them to keep falling long enough for you to close up the store and catch them outside.

They were still falling when the clock struck ten: closing time. Steve made his way out of the maze of the stockroom and to the front, flipping lights off as he went and joining you at the counter.

“Did you see?” You asked, gesturing to the windows. “First snow of the season.”

A wide smile tugged on Steve’s lips.

“It’s still falling?”

“Has been for a few hours.”

“Hopefully my car’s not snowed in,” he said with a frown, craning his head to try and glimpse his car on the street, but the windows were too icy and the night too dark.

“You think your bat doubles as a shovel?”

Steve grinned and ducked beneath the counter to pull out your jackets, handing yours over and shrugging into his own. He tugged a beanie from his pocket, but instead of settling it atop his own head, and reached out and tugged it down over yours. Your brows furrowed and you made a face.

“If I have to listen to you complain about your ears _falling off_ one more time, _my_ ears will fall off,” he said in explanation, but there was an intimacy behind the words that warmed your insides; he listened to you, didn’t want you to be cold. Heat crept up your cheeks but Steve was too focused on digging his keys out of his pockets to notice. Once he had them, you made your way to the front of the store and out into the cold night, waiting with your arms wrapped around yourself to hold in the warmth as Steve locked up.

He turned toward you once he was finished, and his lips quirked up into a smile. He reached out to tap your nose with a finger, letting it fall to your lips, making your breath hitch.

“You’re freezing,” he said. Your pulse leaped and he seemed to realize the close proximity between you, gaze darting down and back up.

“I’m okay,” you said. He reached out to tug the beanie down further, but instead of letting his hands fall away, he let them settle against your cheeks. The pricks of cold at the touch of his fingers wasn’t unpleasant, and you edged closer to him.

Nervousness danced across his features, and he shifted his weight, lips pulling thin.

“I, uh, I wanted to-I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said. “Or, not _talk to you_ about something. _Tell you_ something.” His cheeks were already pink from the cold, but the blush only made them redder. The babbling only made him blush harder.

You reached out and let a hand settle against his chest, making him go still and snap his gaze to yours. Something fiercely affectionate flashed in his eyes, and you fisted the fabric of his coat, drawing him a centimeter closer.

“When I woke up in the base and saw you sitting across from me, I was so…relieved that you were okay. And at the same time, I was terrified you’d get hurt, and angry that you were stuck down there with me, and I swear to god, I wanted to burn that entire place to the ground. And I’d never felt like that about anyone. Ever. Like…like I’d die if something happened to you,” he said.

“I didn’t know what it meant then, but-” his brows furrowed and his thumbs traced softly along your cheekbones, “-I know now.”

“Know what?” You asked, though you already understood where the path was going; you just wanted to hear him say it.

His mouth twitched into a smile.

“Know that I love you,” he said. “And I have for, like, a really long time.”

Your heart threatened to burst out of your chest, and all you could do was beam. His heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s beneath your fingers, and you nudged the coat away so only the fabric of his shirt remained; his heartbeat only quickened. His breath caught, and his gaze flicked down to your hand, and back up.

“You really have to say something,” he said with a nervous exhale, a shy smile on his lips, “because I’m going out of my freaking mind over here.”

You laughed, shaking your head and taking his face between your hands, drawing him toward you and catching his mouth in a kiss. His lips were as cold as yours, but you didn’t pull away, instead winding your fingers into the wispy hair at the nape of his neck. He wound his arms around your waist, tightening his grip and pulling you flush against him, lips parting against yours.

He pulled back, eyes blown, smile wide and bright.

“Wait, so do you-”

“ _Yes_ , I love you,” you said. “ _I love you_.”

The words, once so terrifying, no longer tasted sour on your tongue. They fell out like they’d been waiting to be freed, spreading through your veins and making your head fuzzy with happiness.

_I love you._

**NOW**

Steve doesn’t know what to do with this feeling; this aching in his chest that he feels when you’re not around and only gets worse when you are. He thinks of your words in the car, of _space_ , and _moving on_ , and hates himself for being too late. He lays in bed at night and wills his memories to surface, wills himself to figure out a way to fix things between you and him, but each morning he wakes up and is still missing a piece.

At work, you’re overly polite to him, and he lets you avoid him; it’s what you want. After how much he’s hurt you - intentional or not - he can do nothing but respect your wishes.

“Earth to Steve.” Robin’s voice pulls his focus from you - talking to a customer, fortunately unaware of his staring - and to her face. Steve clears his throat and arches his brows, daring her to call him out.

And it’s Robin, so she does.

“Wanna tell me why _you’re_ now the one drooling? Did I miss something?”

Steve shrugs, folding his arms and leaning them against the counter, dropping his chin. Robin widens her eyes and props her hands on her hips.

“Oh, not a chance, buddy. We’re not doing this moping thing anymore. It’s been _months_ of Y/N staring all sad at you, and now you’re staring all sad at them, and I’m going out of my freaking mind. I _cannot_ handle this tension for another freaking day.”

Steve lifts his head and opens his mouth to protest, but Robin shakes her hand and cuts him off.

“Uh-uh. I don’t wanna hear it. Now, I know you’re smarter than this.” Steve arches a brow, to which she crinkles her nose and grins. “Fine, I want to _believe_ you’re smarter than this.”

“ _Much_ better.”

Robin swats him on the arm.

“So stop being a dingus, _dingus_ , and go deal with your shit before I lose it.”

“It’s not that simple,” he says. Robin takes a long and exaggerated breath and leans forward, taking Steve’s face between her hands and lightly tapping his cheeks before letting her hands fall away.

“Then figure out how to make it simple,” she says.

**THEN**

The car was not, in fact, snowed in, but the roads were a mess, and Steve was forced to remove his hand from yours to maneuver through town slowly. Luckily, there was no traffic at that time of night, and plenty of stoplights to sneak kisses at.

“I’m taking you on a proper date,” Steve announced, risking a glance and a smile your way. “Tomorrow. Full-on boyfriend shit.”

You laughed, so drunk on happiness you could barely get it out. If you could bottle one moment, one second to live in forever, you would have picked that one. Just you and Steve, grinning and giggling like schoolchildren, euphoric.

“Full-on boyfriend shit, huh?”

“Only the best for you,” he said.

“What does this proper date entail?”

“I’m not telling you that,” he said. “That ruins the surprise.”

“So, you’re saying you haven’t figured it out yet?”

He scoffed, faking offense.

“Not true. I totally have it figured out.” He snuck a sheepish smile your way, and you rolled your eyes.

“All I’ll say is that it’s gonna be epic.” He reached out to take your hand and brought it to his lips, dropping a kiss to your knuckles and setting your hand back down, putting his own back on the wheel. “ _A night to remember_.”

“That sounds like a shitty prom theme,” you said, “but I’m there.”

Steve turned onto one of the darker side streets, streetlights sporadically placed. His grip tightened on the wheel, gaze focused on the road ahead of him; it was the only clue he was nervous.

Hawkins’s back roads were dangerous during the day, and adding ice and darkness to the mix only made the concoction worse.

The snowfall made the visibility diminish significantly, and the headlights only showed a few feet ahead of the car. You considered asking Steve if he just wanted to pull over, but the snow didn’t look like it had any intention of stopping, and waiting it out likely wouldn’t do any good.

Looking back, you’d give anything to have just _asked_. A night huddling in Steve’s car on the side of the road was far preferable to…well, what happened next.

But you didn’t ask. Hindsight, as everyone knows, is a bitch.

A rabbit darted across the road, and Steve slammed on the breaks to avoid hitting it. The creature skidded away from the car, safe and unharmed, but Steve’s tires caught on a patch of ice, and the car veered.

Time slowed down as the car spun; Steve threw his arm out as you lurched forward, his elbow striking your ribs; cracks sounded, your rib and Steve’s elbow and the metal of the car as it crunched.

Then you hit the tree, and time stopped altogether.

**NOW**

Steve is the only one closing the store, the place has an eerie feel to it when it’s dark and empty, and he’s relieved when it’s time to leave. Spring is brimming on the surface, threatening to burst through the February chill, warming the air ever so slightly. The snow has all melted, and Steve wishes he’d gotten to see it last year. Or, he wishes he _remembered_ seeing it.

He makes his way to the front door and slips out into the cool night air, tugging the door shut behind him and fishing the key out of his pocket. He jams the key into the lock and twists, something in the movement more familiar than it was last time he did it.

It isn’t some big fireworks show or earth-shattering crumbling of the walls, no shock to the system or bolt of lightning to the chest. One minute, he doesn’t remember _I love you_ , and the next he does. Like he’s just woken up in his childhood bedroom and not recognized it for a brief moment; one second he doesn’t, and the next he does.

It isn’t everything; he can see the blanks in the memories, now, but he can feel them reaching up their hands; they’ll make it to the surface, just as you have. They will find their way home. Find their way back to him the way he’s found his way back to you.

His father is back from a business trip and expecting him for the obligatory and always awkward two-second reunion before they all split off to separate rooms. But Steve couldn’t care less about his father right now.

He has somewhere else he needs to be. He is late, _so very late_ ; hopefully, though, not _too_ late.


	8. after this life, I'll find you in the next

**NOW**

The streets are quiet, to Steve’s relief, and he reaches your house in what has to be record time. He pulls up and yanks the car into park, almost forgetting to take off his seatbelt and nearly choking himself trying to climb out. 

In the driveway, you’re popping open your car door, about to get in when Steve’s arrival grabs your attention. You pause, an arm slung over the door, brows furrowing at the sight of him.

Previously stolen moments pop to the surface; drinking at graduation, huddling together in an elevator a thousand feet below StarCourt mall, an almost kiss amidst boxes. It’s like falling all at once, like finding his way back to the place he was - the _person_ he was - the night everything broke. He’s been looking for something since the moment he woke up in the hospital, and only now does he realize you’ve been in front of him the whole time.

“Steve?” You step away from your car and shut the door. “What are you doing here?”

He stops a few feet away from you, heart beating ferociously in his chest, the breath halfway knocked out of him.

“You heard us from your house,” he says, raking a hand through his hair, hoping he can find the right words to explain. It feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff and swaying a little too far over. “ _You_ knocked Billy out. You got us the job at Scoops. You held bags of frozen peas to my face for weeks after the base. You cursed my dad out when he gave me shit about losing that job.”

Your lips part and fear sweeps across your face, but it isn’t fear like he’s seen it. It’s tinged with something dangerous, something terrifying to feel: hope. Like you’re desperate for him to keep talking and desperate for him to stop.

“You were there.” Steve takes a step closer to you. “For everything. And we got so close-” he doesn’t need to give an explanation for that; the tightening of your jaw signifies understanding, “-and then I got lost.” A wave of emotion rolls through him, making tears prick in the back of his eyes and his chest swell. “I’m so _sorry_ ,” he says. “I’m so sorry I forgot. I’m so sorry it took me so long to remember.”

A tear snakes its way down your cheek.

“ _Remember_ ,” you say, not even daring to pose it as a question.

“I remember,” he says. 

“Everything?” You ask.

“ _Everything_.” That isn’t technically true; there are still memories struggling to the surface. But he can _feel_ them coming back. And while he might not remember every single moment stolen, he knows what he feels when he looks at you. Your face is carved into his heart, a scar he couldn’t see and overlooked; it’s been ripped wide open.

“You’re sure?” You ask, still hesitant, still afraid. Steve closes the distance between you, reaching out to brush a tear off your cheek with a thumb. Your breath hitches and Steve’s stomach twists, tumbles, turns; months he spent not realizing he missed you unfold painfully inside him.

“You’re the only thing I’m sure about.”

He doesn’t know who reaches for who, who kisses who first, or if you both move at the same time; it is not gentle, not careful, not slow; it is making up for the lost time he only knows now is gone; the time you’ve spent carrying the weight. Your fingers curl around the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging ever so lightly, and he presses your shoulders, walking you back and pressing you against the car. It’s not near chaste enough of a kiss to be had in one’s driveway, but Steve couldn’t care less, and from the way you gasp into his mouth when you hit the metal, it seems you couldn’t either.

His hands flutter up and down your arms, grasp at the fabric at your waist, slide to the small of your back and up your spine. He’s trying to convince himself that you’re here, that you’re real, that he’s found his way back; you do the same, fingers carding through his hair, heart beating quickly against your chest, pressed flush against his.

You pull back to look at him, pupils blown, breath coming in little gasps, staring at him like you’ve never seen him before. Your lips curl up in a tiny smile and you caress one of his cheeks; he catches your hand and turns it, pressing his mouth to the small of your wrist.

“This is real,” you say. “This is really happening.”

“Unless you got hit in the head, too, and we’re sharing a coma.”

You laugh, and the sound breaks Steve’s heart wide open, warmth coursing through his veins. He’s missed that sound; forgotten it was his favorite.

But he remembers, now.

“I missed you, Steve Harrington,” you say.

“I missed you, too,” he says. “I have since I woke up. I just didn’t know it.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “You just took a little nap.”

The first words you ever said to him, in the back of a car driven by a fourteen-year-old. He hadn’t deserved your help, then. But you’d given it anyways. He’d never deserved you, but he’d always wanted to. He still wants to. And he’ll spend however long he has to getting there.

“You never gave up, did you?”

“Not for a second,” you say. “Why do you think I was so pissed off?”

He tilts his head and grins.

“I thought you-”

“ _Hated you_ , yeah, yeah.”

He grins and ducks to press a kiss to your cheek.

“But you don’t,” he says, “you _love_ me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. That ego’s inflated enough. But yes,” you say. “ _I love you_.”

“We never did get to have that date, you know,” he says. You cock a brow, and Steve thinks he’d be content to just look at you forever; to freeze this moment and live in it.

“Better get to planning.” You grin wickedly. “Bet you still can’t remember your epic date idea, huh?”

“You know, now that I think about it, I just…don’t recall,” he says, pouting with exaggeration.

“Convenient.”

He leans in to kiss you again, softly this time; like you have all the time in the world. Right now, you do. And now is all that really matters. Now is all we have; it’s our job to make the most of it.


	9. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cuz im a hoe for epilogues

Each morning Steve Harrington wakes up, he’s afraid that he’s left pieces behind, memories plucked up and out of his head, taken for good. Each morning he wakes up, and remembers, is a miracle. He still half expects the other shoe to drop, spends his days waiting for the memories to fall away again, spends his days clinging to them for dear life.

Each day that he wakes up, and still remembers you, is a day he covets, a day he treasures, a day he begs the universe to give him again. And so far, every day, he still remembers.

After two weeks of waking up and retaining his faculties, he wants to believe the memories are there to stay. He’s lost his tendency for optimism long ago, sometime between when he first picked up the studded bat and when he overheard a Russian transmission on Dustin’s radio.

“Is there a reason we’re going to the Byers’ old place?” You ask, following Steve along the dirt path stretching through the woods between you and the Byers’ home - now empty, the last buyers moving out and the next to be moved in a few weeks later. It didn’t look like the Byers’ home anymore, hadn’t since they left it all those months ago, but you and Steve both are still bombarded with memories each time you drive past the place. Living so close to it makes for constant reminders.

“Do you not understand the concept of a surprise?” Steve retorts, cocking a brow. You scoff, and he slows, lips curling up in a smile as he takes your hand, threading your fingers together. “Think you can make it thirty more seconds?”

“No,” you say, and his smile widens. He tugs you along, swinging your hands between you with exaggeration the way a child might swing their parent’s hands. He leads you up the Byers’ old driveway and veers to the left, heading around to the back of the house and the vast fields behind it.

About fifty yards from the back door, Steve has set up a picnic, a big blanket sprawled across the grass, a bag full of food propped on top of it. You still, and Steve continues another step before turning to face you, a shy smile tugging on his lips.

You see the tops of bags and boxes of food in the bag, and your heart warms at the realization he’s brought all your favorites. It still never ceases to shock you when the little memories - things no one would remember they’d forgotten - push to the surface, a reminder that the time you lost has been regained.

“You did this?” You ask, voice low. Steve inclines his head and shrugs casually like it’s nothing; like it’s not _everything_.

“Told you I had a date planned,” he says, and crosses the short distance to the blanket, dropping down to sit cross-legged. You move to join him, sitting opposite him, knees pressing together. “Not bad, yeah?”

“I thought you were screwing with me.”

“Me? Screwing with you? I’d _never_.”

You snort, and Steve leans over to tug a bottle out of the bag: champagne. You arch your brows, and he grins.

“It was $5, so it’s definitely disgusting,” he says.

“It’s perfect,” you say. “Shitty alcohol is still alcohol.”

He laughs and twists the cork off - truly, a quality product - before handing it to you. You take a long drag from the bottle, wincing at the taste, and hand it to Steve.

“That,” you say, “is nasty.”

Steve takes a swig, features twisting, and he coughs, setting the bottle down.

“ _Jesus_.”

“That’s what happens when you spend $5 on alcohol.”

“I thought it was _perfect_.”

“It is,” you say, flashing a grin, “but I don’t have good taste.”

He snorts a laugh and shifts, reaching out to pull you against him, only for both of you to lose your balance and go toppling onto the blanket. Steve pushes himself up onto his elbows above you, blowing a strand of hair out of his face, a wicked grin pulling on his lips.

He bends down to brush his lips against yours, gentle, careful; he does that, sometimes, is slow and tender, like one press too hard with a finger will make you dissolve. Like if he doesn’t watch out, it’ll slip away again.

You reach up to wind your arms around his neck, drawing him closer, deepening the kiss; you’re not going anywhere.

It’s more than memory, was always more than memory, but Steve just didn’t quite understand that until after. Even when the memory of you was tucked away, hidden, there were a million fraying strings poking through, strings Steve couldn’t weave back together until now. Now, he understands, that he’s loved you since the moment you showed up in the Byers’ house all that time ago, and he loved you even when he didn’t know you. He couldn’t decipher the aching, twisting, painful flame in his chest each time he saw you.

He may have cared for Nancy Wheeler, but he didn’t love her; he thought he did, and maybe that’s why it took so much longer to figure out. He never once felt the way he does with you with Nancy Wheeler, this ever-present, overwhelming feeling, one there aren’t words for.

“I missed you,” he says, propping himself above you, brows furrowing. “ _So much._ ”

“I was right here the whole time,” you say. His lips pull down in a frown.

“But I wasn’t,” he says. “I wasn’t here.”

You shake your head, drawing Steve closer, his nose centimeters from your own.

“You are now,” you say. His frown dissolves into a smile, and he brushes his nose against yours in an Eskimo kiss that makes his own stomach twist. He pushes up to look at you, wide-eyed and awed, as if each second his eyes land on you is a blessing or a gift. And it is.

He sits up, tugging you up with him, and you swing a leg over his waist, settling on his lap, arms slung loosely around his neck.

“I think you nailed the full-on boyfriend shit,” you say.

“Told you I would.”

“Good to know your ego is still intact.”

He flashes you a grin, cocking his head.

“Oh, my ego was never in any trouble.”

“Clearly.”

He laughs, ducking his head and tucking his chin against your neck, cold lips against warm skin. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it; of moments like these, of quiet breaths and tiny smiles and soft touches. Your fingers skimming through his hair, and your laugh, and all the little things he lost and didn’t know about.

There is no one to thank for getting it all back. There’s just the next moment, the next second.

After a million moments stolen - and somehow, miraculously, returned - Steve isn’t willing to let a single one go to waste.


End file.
